


Trust Fall

by Atalan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley love each other very much, Fallen Aziraphale, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, actual oneshot, she/her pronouns for Beelzebub, softer than it looks I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/pseuds/Atalan
Summary: AU. Not long after the start of the Arrangement, Aziraphale Falls, and Crowley does the only thing he can think of to protect him from the rest of Hell.Written for The Ineffable Con 2 Fanfic Zine, October 2020.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 668
Collections: The Ineffable Con 2





	Trust Fall

At first, Crowley was only vaguely aware that something was going on in the halls of Hell. The last couple of Crusades had generated so much paperwork that he’d been forced to come down and do it in person, crammed into a crappy little damp room with a wobbly chair and a desk that was too small to hold all the files comfortably. It wasn’t even his space: he didn’t rate high enough for that. The usual occupant seemed to have a thing for carved ivory reliefs of the various tortures invented by humanity. Amusingly, they’d apparently mistaken what looked like a committee meeting as something appropriate for the collection. Well, Crowley assumed it was a mistake. Perhaps he had more in common with his unknown fellow demon than he’d thought.

What finally caught his attention was someone excitedly repeating the word _angel_ in the corridor outside. Crowley was always fairly attuned to that particular word, for reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely, and he paused in the middle of his report, frowning.

He stuck his head out into the corridor.

“What was that?”

The three gossiping demons shot him a variety of suspicious looks, but Crowley put on his best inquisitive, harmless expression, and the one who’d been talking couldn’t resist the urge to share the latest news again.

“They’re saying there’s been an angel cast out of Heaven,” said the demon gleefully. “Properly Fallen and everything!”

“You sure?” Crowley asked doubtfully. “It’s been millennia since anyone Fell. Thought Heaven wasn’t doing that any more?”

“Yeah, well, this one must’ve _really_ fucked up,” said the demon. “Heard he was stationed on Earth or something, maybe he–”

Crowley didn’t hear the rest of the speculation over the sudden, terrible roaring that had filled his ears.

There was only one angel who remained permanently on Earth, and Crowley hadn’t seen him in a couple of decades. The Crusades had apparently been keeping him just as busy. But it couldn’t… it couldn’t be. It must be some other angel, surely. The demons hardly had any idea of what went on up on Earth. They probably thought anyone who dropped in for an assignment was ‘stationed’ there.

That had to be it. Because the idea that Aziraphale might have _Fallen…_ that Heaven might have found a reason to cast him out… that Heaven might have found one very _specific_ reason to cast him out, one that had to do with the blessing Crowley had done in Milan at the end of the previous century, and the temptation Aziraphale had performed in payback shortly afterwards…

It was the very first time he’d persuaded Aziraphale to exchange favours like that, the first time Aziraphale had agreed to consider some sort of arrangement between them. Surely… _surely_ they hadn’t been caught so easily? Surely all Crowley’s reassurances that no-one was watching hadn’t been empty…?

He was barely aware of pushing past the gaggle of demons and taking off at a run. Hell’s décor was currently in the style of a huge stone castle of the sort favoured by the various warring European factions. Crowley raced along ominous corridors with flickering, smokey torches, down two flights of narrow spiral stairs that threatened to break his metaphorical neck for a misstep, and past a tapestry that always turned his stomach a bit when he had to look at it.

There was a throne room, of course, where Satan presumably Brooded on the Fate of Man or, quite possibly, was taking an extended multi-millennia nap. No-one ever went in there. The actual _decisions_ were made in the big, damp, draughty hall where Beelzebub liked to sit on a red-hot iron throne and sign her paperwork with a glowing brand pulled from the fire.

It was packed, the crowd overflowing into the corridor outside, jostling to see what was going on. Impossible to get through, unless perhaps you had once been a snake, and still retained a certain slithery way of moving through tight spaces.

Demons didn’t pray, of course. It would be counterproductive and frankly humiliating. Nonetheless, a constant stream of pleas and denial roared through Crowley’s head as he wriggled towards the front of the crowd. _Not him, come on, not him, You couldn’t do that to him, You wouldn’t, it wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be right–_

He elbowed past a pair of succubi and caught a glimpse of cloud-white curls that were painfully, preciously familiar. His not-prayer cut off mid-word, his head ringing with accusatory silence.

Aziraphale was kneeling on the cold flagstone floor, not in supplication, but slumped like he was barely able to keep himself from collapsing. He was dressed much as Crowley had last seen him, his pale surcoat and hooded cape half a century out of fashion but eerily reminiscent of the white robes he’d worn in Eden. There wasn’t a mark on him, not a stain or a spot of dirt. He looked desperately out of place in the dingy halls of Hell.

The demons closest to him were jeering and jibing, taunting and threatening him. How different, Crowley thought bitterly, from how it had been when the Watchers had Fallen before the Flood. They’d been slapped on the back and welcomed as family. But that had been so soon after the beginning of the world, before millennia of mutual disdain had settled in between angels and demons...

Maybe it would have been different if Aziraphale had been able to hold his head high, had walked into Hell with defiant pride. Or maybe that would have just driven them to take him down a peg with even more urgency.

Beelzebub was reading from a long scroll. Most of it was on the floor already, just the last few inches in her charcoal-stained hands. Crowley could barely hear her over the crowd, but he got the gist. It was the standard employment contract, the one they’d all signed back in the Beginning, the one that made them Hell’s property for all eternity (but did at least guarantee overtime pay). Theoretically, Aziraphale didn’t have to accept, but given that the alternative was for the hordes of jeering demons to tear him to pieces, feed the pieces to the hellhounds, and grind up whatever was left into its component atoms, one might reasonably argue that there was very little choice at all.

There was a lot in there about seniority, and earning one’s place through merit. It had been one of Lucifer’s strongest arguments, that the fixed hierarchy of Heaven was unfair. He’d promised a realm where anyone could be anything, as long as they had the talent for it. Mostly, the talent in question had turned out to be who was the most effective backstabber, the most skilled at violently eliminating rivals.

Aziraphale would be at the very bottom of Hell’s hierarchy, thousands of years behind everyone else. The other demons would use and abuse him, make him their whipping boy and keep him down here to casually torture for the rest of time.

Unless someone gave them a reason to leave him alone.

Crowley shoved his way clear of the crowd just as Beelzebub was putting down the scroll. He managed to turn his stagger into swagger, strolling forward like he owned the place. Beelzebub scowled at him.

“What do you want, Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s head came up as Crowley circled around him. He didn’t look any different yet. It was possible he wouldn’t change very much at all. Not all demons had animal aspects, and not all of them rejected their former angelic appearance. Crowley found himself hoping, selfishly, that Aziraphale would want to stay how he was, even as he knew deep down that it wouldn’t matter, that if Aziraphale chose a radically different corporation and aspect, Crowley would accept it in a heartbeat.

Aziraphale looked less upset than Crowley might have expected. Tired, perhaps. Defeated. Resigned. But not as heartbroken or as hurt as Crowley had feared. He looked up at Crowley without much change in expression, and Crowley’s heart twisted at the lack of acknowledgement. He looked away. He couldn’t watch Aziraphale’s reaction to what he was about to do.

“I’m here to claim what’s mine,” Crowley said. Somehow, Satan knew how, his voice came out loud and confident and smooth. He forced a grin for the crowd, pushed it as far into a leer as he could manage. “Specifically, _my angel_. He Fell because of me. Been working on it for centuries. I think it’s only fair I get to do what I want with him now.”

There was an explosion of surprise and disbelief, a roar of excited chatter amongst the crowd. Crowley turned back to Beelzebub, smirking. The Prince of Hell was giving him a profoundly sceptical look.

“You what?”

“Corrupted him, didn’t I?” Crowley replied. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as if he could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him. “ _Tempted_ him, with all the pleasures of the world, and then when he let down his guard, I made him _doubt_. Made him wonder if it really _mattered_ if he did the Work of the Lord. Made him think maybe the odd vice here and there wasn’t _that_ big a deal.”

“That hardly soundzz like something worth Falling for,” Beelzebub retorted, eyes narrowed.

“It’s _attrition_ ,” Crowley said, waving his hand airily. He was desperate to turn around and look at Aziraphale, and terrified at the same time of what he would see on his face if he did. “Little bit here, little bit there, like a landslide. Slowly piling up the sin until the whole thing collapses. My finest work, if I do say so myself.”

“That does match the severance notice from Up There,” Dagon put in from Beelzebub’s elbow. She had no love for Crowley, but she was at least a stickler for accuracy and detail. “Said he’d gone rotten from the inside, might as well have been a demon for years.”

Crowley felt sick. He felt sicker when he heard a soft, choked noise from behind him.

“You said you were my friend,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nearly cracked then. Nearly gave up the whole thing. Thought about dropping to his knees, and throwing his arms around Aziraphale, and weeping as the watching demons set upon them both.

Instead, he made a leisurely turn to look down at the angel - former angel - whose face had gone slack with horror, whose eyes were wide and shocked, and put on the best performance of his demonic career.

“Well, _yeah,_ ” Crowley sneered. “That’s what I _said_. And you believed me. You actually believed me!”

Aziraphale held his gaze for what felt like eternity. Then, all at once, his face crumpled and he sagged forward, barely catching himself with his hands on the cold stone floor. His fingertips were stained with ink, Crowley saw with a shock, dark outlines around his usually perfect nails. Aziraphale made a quiet, desolate sound of despair, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

The crowd went wild. Hooting, jeering, screaming with delight. Not one of them doubted Crowley’s story, and even though most of them must be seething with jealousy, they couldn’t contain their sadistic admiration for such a complete and perfect betrayal.

When he turned back to Beelzebub, she was looking at him with a new respect. Crowley wanted to sink through the floor. He’d always managed a certain amount of status with the leadership, won plenty of commendations (often entirely undeserved), given the impression he was a hard-working and up-and-coming demon without actually doing much to justify it, but Beelzebub had always partly seen through him. She couldn’t argue with his results, but she’d always seemed to know his commitment to Hell was half-hearted.

Now, she looked like she was actually reconsidering that opinion.

“And what izz it you want, exzzactly?” Beelzebub asked, leaning forward in her throne. “A promotion? I won’t argue. You could make Duke for this, corner office and everything.”

Crowley couldn’t imagine a worse punishment.

“Nah,” he said, with what he hoped was studied indifference, “I’m doing my best work up on Earth. But I could do with a hand. Not with the big stuff, ‘course, got that all covered, but someone to do my paperwork, run my errands, shine my shoes, you know…”

“You want him azz your lackey,” Beelzebub said with a raised eyebrow. “A brand-new demon, with no skillzz, who hates your guts.”

“I want to watch him forced to be complicit in everything he tried to thwart,” Crowley replied, low and grim. He hoped it came out the way he intended, like he’d been nursing a deep disgust towards Aziraphale for millennia, like he wanted to wring out every last drop of pleasure from his enemy’s humiliation. The words almost stuck in his throat, but he forced them out. “I want to watch him serve the person who destroyed him.”

“It’s irregular,” Dagon put in, but she couldn’t hide how much the idea appealed to her. “Outside the usual reporting structure. Could do it, though.” She shot Crowley a sharp look. “You’d be responsible for him. He messes up, it’s on you.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“And he’d have to accept the amended contract, of course,” Beelzebub said. 

She gestured at Crowley to step aside so she could see Aziraphale. Crowley reluctantly obeyed. He couldn’t help glancing down as he did so. Aziraphale had retreated back into his hunched posture, hands clenched tightly on his knees, head down. Beelzebub regarded him with a certain amount of calculation, shot a glance at Crowley, and then smirked and leaned back in her chair.

“One thing you should know, rookie,” she said to Aziraphale. “We have a very _dynamic_ promotion policy here. Easiest way to get yourself into a better position is to make sure there’s a position to be filled, if you catch my drift.”

Aziraphale’s head jerked up and he stared at her, a sudden fire in his eyes. Crowley tried not to swallow too obviously. He’d never seen Aziraphale look like that, hard and furious, like he fully intended to exact his revenge on someone who’d wronged him.

“Oi,” Crowley managed weakly, trying to sound affronted rather than desperate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Meanzz I don’t want you getting _complacent_ ,” Beelzebub replied with a nasty grin. “Meanzz I reckon having a knife at your back ought to spur you to even greater thingzz.”

“Pretty sure that constitutes a hostile working environment–”

“I accept,” Aziraphale said.

The room exploded into so much noise that Crowley couldn’t hear what Beelzebub told Dagon, but he saw the Prince of Hell gesture to the contract, saw the last roll of it glow bright with a sigil that was like Aziraphale’s true name but not. Beelzebub snarled at the crowd until it subsided into murmuring and speculation.

“He’s all yourzz, Crowley,” she said. “The onboarding packet will be waiting for you in your office. Get hizz name change filed before you go back up to Earth.”

She grinned toothily.

“I look forward to your next report.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered. He took a deep breath, forced himself to look down at Aziraphale without flinching. “Come on, then. On your feet. You do what I say from now on.”

Aziraphale looked back at him silently for a long, horrible moment, his face still set in that hard, intense expression. Then he got awkwardly to his feet, swaying and almost falling back down as his legs shook under him. It took every scrap of Crowley’s willpower not to offer him a hand.

The crowd parted for them reluctantly, but with an undercurrent of respect that Crowley had seldom experienced. Aziraphale walked two steps behind him, like a slave following his master. Various demons sneered at him as he passed. One reached out with a long claw to do who-knew-what. Crowley spun around and caught their wrist with the speed of a striking snake.

“No-one touches him,” he snarled. “You all got that? I don’t like it when people damage my property.”

Even a week ago, he couldn’t have got away with this. He didn’t have that kind of reputation in Hell. Or he hadn’t, before he convinced them all he’d made an angel Fall.

The demon wrenched their hand back with a sullen glare. No-one else reached for Aziraphale as they left the great hall. Crowley didn’t look back, didn’t dare. He could hear Aziraphale’s footsteps behind him as they walked through the thinning crowds, left the graphic tapestry behind, began the ascent of the first of the spiral stairs.

They passed demons as they went, all whispering and staring. News travelled faster than wildfire in the halls of Hell. Crowley led Aziraphale on without ever turning his head, through interminable, dark stone corridors, until they reached the door of his borrowed office.

He took hold of the handle and hesitated. Just for a moment, he closed his eyes. On the other side of this door, he would have to face Aziraphale, really face him, would have to look into his eyes and see every scrap of betrayal and hatred he deserved. He’d try to explain, of course. Try to make Aziraphale understand it had been the only thing he could do. But why would he listen to a demon who’d just thrown their friendship onto the ground between them and shot it through the heart?

Crowley opened the door and stepped through. He stood aside to let Aziraphale pass. He shut the door with careful deliberation, took a breath, let the facade of cruelty drop, and turned to Aziraphale with every broken shard of his heart falling cleanly out of his chest.

He was too slow. Aziraphale was already coming at him, and Crowley could have struck first, or dodged, but he was too heartsick to do more than close his eyes and let it happen.

Aziraphale collided with him hard enough to knock him back a step. His arms went around Crowley with a grip like a vice, his face pressed to Crowley’s shoulder, his whole body shaking as he sagged against Crowley like he was the only safe place in a storm-tossed sea.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, pressing even closer, like he wanted to burrow right into Crowley and never leave. His breath hitched. “You were– you were magnificent, my dear.”

Crowley heard himself make a sound like something wounded, and then he was almost crushing Aziraphale in his embrace, holding him up, leaning on him for support, pressing his face to Aziraphale’s hair as a tide of grief and gratitude surged out of him so powerfully he could barely stand it.

“’M sorry,” Crowley choked, “had to– couldn’t think of any other way to keep you safe–”

“I know,” Aziraphale mumbled, fingers tight in the back of Crowley’s shirt. “I knew what you were doing as soon as you said– as soon as you called me _your angel–_ I tried to play along, I– I hope I did all right–”

“Angel, you were _perfect._ You fooled them all.” 

He didn’t add that Aziraphale had fooled him too. In fact, Crowley swore to himself right then and there that Aziraphale would never, ever know that Crowley had doubted him.

Then he realised what he’d just said. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, it slipped out–”

“Don’t you _dare_ stop calling me that,” Aziraphale replied fiercely. His shuddering was easing, his breath coming more evenly. He made no attempt to raise his head from Crowley’s shoulder. “We both know you haven’t meant it literally in centuries.”

Crowley made a helpless noise in the back of his throat. He tried, impossibly, to hold Aziraphale even tighter. They stood like that for so long that Crowley began to think neither of them would ever move again. He could imagine worse fates.

“What happened?” Crowley finally forced himself to ask. Guilt reared its head again. “Was it–?”

“Nothing to do with our arrangement,” Aziraphale replied at once. He knew Crowley so well. Knew what his first fear would be. “Nothing to do with you. They never knew about that, even when they pulled out all the other evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

Aziraphale laughed, weary and brittle.

“My _dereliction of duty_ ,” he said, breath warm on Crowley’s neck. “Strangely enough, once they had a reason to go after me, it became apparent that all of those times they told me to stand aside and not interfere were actually done on my own initiative, abandoning my post in defiance of the will of Heaven.”

Fury and outrage flooded Crowley.

“They set you up? They _made_ you Fall?”

Aziraphale sighed. He finally lifted his head, swayed back just enough that he could look Crowley in the face. They had never been so close, Crowley realised, in five thousand years. Aziraphale looked the way he had back in the great hall: weary, sad, resigned.

“No,” he said. “In the end, that was all me. I asked one too many questions, you see.”

“ _Angel_ –” Crowley whispered, feeling like someone had speared him with a consecrated blade.

“I’ve seen too many holy wars,” Aziraphale went on softly. His eyes looked grey in the dim light. “And these Crusades… it’s nothing but petty posturing and expansion of territory. They use the name of God to justify what they do, and what they do is revel in greed and wrath and envy, and Gabriel told me to _support_ them…”

He swallowed.

“Do you know what they did in Jerusalem, a hundred years ago?”

Crowley nodded. He hadn’t dared try to take credit for the slaughter, not with the Christian banner held high in its name. He’d secretly been relieved that he didn’t have to have it on his record.

“They’re at it again,” Aziraphale continued grimly. “Direct inspiration this time. Someone popped down for a word with King Richard, filled him with religious fervour, or at least reminded him that the treasury needed some topping up. Granted divine favour to a man who seems to view the seven deadly sins as a checklist!”

His voice rose with an anger Crowley had never seen in him. That he’d perhaps never let himself feel before.

“So I asked to speak with God. They tried to fob me off, but I– I had to know. I had to ask. If we were doing the right thing. If maybe there’d been some mistake. The Metatron gave me the usual runaround, but I insisted on going myself to the Empty Throne.”

“And?” Crowley breathed.

“She didn’t answer,” Aziraphale said simply. “Not a word. And then I knew I couldn’t serve Her any more.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley managed, brokenly. “Oh, angel, I–”

Aziraphale shook his head to quiet him.

“I made my choice,” he said. “It was all rather quick after that. I would have just walked out, but they wanted to make an example of me. They raked up everything they could, made a proper case for kicking me out. Then Michael frogmarched me down the ivory stair and handed me over to Hell. And… here I am.”

He raised a hand to Crowley’s cheek, wiping away the tears that had been leaking unnoticed from his eyes. There was more ink on Aziraphale’s skin now, Crowley saw, swirling lines that were spreading across the back of his hand like a tattoo, beginning to take on the shape of words in some language he couldn’t read. Aziraphale had always loved words, and writing, and the preservation of knowledge. Loved them more than perhaps an angel should, when it was so often convenient for Heaven to rewrite its own narratives.

“We’re on the same side now,” Aziraphale murmured, the smallest hint of a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I take some comfort in that.”

He shivered, and then, with a soft rustling sound, unfolded his wings. They were still mostly white, to Crowley’s surprise, but he could see darkness at the tip of each feather, as if someone had misunderstood how to use a quill pen, and dipped the wrong end in ink. They reminded Crowley of magpie wings, and he wondered how much of a conscious decision it had been on Aziraphale’s part.

“You’ll have to look after those better now,” Crowley managed roughly. “Demons have standards, y’know.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh that surprised him. Even more surprising was the light in his eyes, the way they’d shifted almost back to blue despite the darkness of Hell.

“Do I really have to change my name?” Aziraphale asked, with that ever-so-familiar petulant note and barely-there pout. “I don’t see what it accomplishes, apart from confusing everyone.”

“It’s tradition,” Crowley protested. “S’posed to be, like… cutting ties with your past life. Throwing it out.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, resting his hand on Crowley’s chest and fiddling absently with the shirt’s ties.

“I’m not sure I want to throw out the last five thousand years,” he said. “There are a lot of things in there that I value very much.”

He glanced up at Crowley through his lashes, and Crowley’s heart turned all the way over as he really, truly began to grasp what Aziraphale had clearly already understood.

“We’re on the same side,” Crowley said, wonderingly. “We can– we still have to be careful– can’t let anyone think we _like_ each other– but as long as we make it look like I’m bossing you around and you’re plotting against me–”

“I am _not_ doing your paperwork,” Aziraphale said with a sniff.

To his own amazement, Crowley threw back his head and laughed. Aziraphale leaned in close again, smiling, and when Crowley looked down, he could see the first curls of ink creeping up his neck, like twining vines cradling his face. It was rather beautiful. It suited him.

Aziraphale reached up to cradle Crowley’s cheek, and it was easiest, most natural thing in the world to kiss him then, the way Crowley had wanted to kiss him for so very long. Aziraphale melted against him, winding his ink-stained fingers into Crowley’s hair, the warmth of his aura lapping against Crowley’s own. It hadn’t changed much either, Crowley realised. The holy glow was gone, but all of the things that had always made him love Aziraphale were still there. The curiosity, the kindness, the questions, the streak of stubbornness. Nothing of Hell clung to him yet. If Crowley had his way, they’d be back on Earth before anything could.

When they finally parted, they didn’t go far, resting their foreheads together and holding on tight to each other. Crowley thought of all the things they could do now, how they could stay close and travel together, how Aziraphale could indulge in all his little harmless pleasures without that patina of guilt. The very first thing they’d do, Crowley decided, was find themselves a nice castle or mansion somewhere, and start collecting those illuminated manuscripts Aziraphale had been coveting for centuries.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley said. “Pick a name, any name. You don’t have to use it with me. And then we can go home.”

Aziraphale’s smile was still like the sun, even as delicate strokes of ink flowed over his temples to frame his eyes. The very tips of his hair, like his feathers, had darkened to black, but the rest was still white, still as soft and lovely as it ever had been.

“Home,” Aziraphale said. “I like the sound of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come and find me on [tumblr](https://brightwanderer.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/brightwanderer)!


End file.
